Within the arras; when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground rush forth,
And bind the boy which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.
1 Att. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to it.
[Exeunt Attendants.]
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. [Enter Arth.]
Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.
Hub. Good morrow, little prince.
Arth. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be.--You are sad.
Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.
Arth. Mercy on me!
Methinks nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practices more harm to me.
He is afraid of me, and I of him.
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
No, indeed, is 't not; and I would to Heaven,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate,
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [Aside.]
Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day.
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
That I might, sit all night, and watch with you.
I warrant, I love you more than you do me.
Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.--
Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now,
foolish rheum. [Aside.]
Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.--
Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?
Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
Hub. Young boy, I must.
Arth. And will you?
Hub. And I will.
Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you? and Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you:
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was a crafty love,
And call it cunning: do, and if you will:
If Heaven be pleased that you should use me ill,
Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?--
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you?
Hub. I have sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench its fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron?
An if an angel should have come to me,
And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believed him; no tongue, but Hubert's.
Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.--Reënter Attendants.]
Do as I bid you.
Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out,
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the irons angrily.
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.
Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
1 Att. I am best pleased to be away from such a deed.
[Exeunt Attendants.]
Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend:
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart.
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.
Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Arth. Is there no remedy?
Hub. None, but to lose your eyes.
Arth. O, Heaven! that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a meandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
Hub. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes.
Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert!
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes; O, spare mine eyes,
Though to no use, but still to look on you!
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.
Hub. I can heat it, boy.
Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief--
Being create for comfort,--to be used
In undeserved extremes. See else yourself:
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strewed repentant ashes on his head.
Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert;
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes,
And, like a dog, that is compelled to fight,
Snatch at his master that does tarre him on.
All things that you should use to do me wrong,
Deny their office: only you do lack
That mercy, which fierce fire, and iron, extends,--
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.
Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes.
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.
Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while
You were disguised.
Hub. Peace; no more: Adieu!--
Your uncle must not know but you are dead;
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports.
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.
Arth. O, Heaven!--I thank you, Hubert.
Hub. Silence: no more. Go closely in with me:
Much danger do I undergo for thee.
Shakespeare.
CCCLXXIII.
QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.
Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear in
this:
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella
For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein, my letters, praying on his side,
Because I knew the man, were slighted off.
Brutus. You wronged yourself to write in such a case.
Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear its comment.
Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold,
To undeservers.
Cas. I an itching palm?
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last!
Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.
Cas. Chastisement!
Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember!
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
What villain touched his body, that did stab,
And not for justice?--What! shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world,
But for supporting robbers,--shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honors
For so much trash as may be graspéd thus?--
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman!
Cas. Brutus, bay not me!
I'll not endure it. You forget yourself,
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.
Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius.
Cas. I am.
Bru. I say you are not.
Cas. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself;
Have mind upon your health; tempt me no farther!
Bru. Away, slight man!
Cas. Is 't possible?
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
Cas O ye gods! ye gods! Must I endure all this?
Bru. All this? ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break;
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble! Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humor? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth,--yea for my laughter,
When you are waspish!
Cas. Is it come to this?
Bru. You say, you are a better soldier:
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well. For mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus:
I said, an elder soldier, not a better.
Did I say, better?
Bru. If you did, I care not.
Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.
Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him!
Cas. I durst not?
Bru. No.
Cas. What? durst not tempt him?
Bru. For your life, you durst not!
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;
I may do that I shall be sorry for.
Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;--
For I can raise no money by vile means:
By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection! I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces!
Can. I denied you not.
Bru. You did.
Cas. I did not;--he was but a fool
That brought my answer back.--Brutus hath rived my heart;
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.
Bru. I do not like your faults.
Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.
Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is aweary of the world;
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes!--There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine,--richer than gold;
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I that denied thee gold, will give my heart:
Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know,
When thou didst hate him worst, then lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius!
Brat. Sheathe your dagger;
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.
O Cassius, you are yokéd with a lamb
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforcéd, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.
Cas. Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him?
Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered, too.
Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.
Cas. O, Brutus!
Bru. What's the matter?
Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humor, which my mother gave me,
Makes me forgetful?
Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
Shakespeare.
CCCXXLXIV.
DOGBERRY'S CHARGE.
DOGBERRY--VERGES--THE WATCH.
Dog. Are you good men and true?
Ver. Yea, or else it were a pity but they should suffer
salvation, body and soul.
Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if
they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the
prince's watch.
Ver. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dogberry.
Dog. First, who think you the most desartless man to be
constable?
1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they
can write and read.
Dog. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. God hath blessed
you with a good name: to be a well-favored man is the gift of
fortune, but to write and read comes by nature.
2 Watch. Both which, master constable,--
Dog. You have; I knew it would be your answer. Well,
for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of
it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there
is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most
senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore,
bear you the lantern. This is your charge;--you shall comprehend
all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the
prince's name.
2 Watch. How, if he will not stand?
Dog. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and
presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you
are rid of a knave.
Ver. If he will not stand when he is bidden he is none of
the prince's subjects.
Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none but the
prince's subjects.--You shall also make no noise in the streets:
for, for the watch to babble and talk, is most tolerable, and not
to be endured.
2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk: we know what
belongs to a watch.
Dog. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman;
for I cannot see how sleeping should offend: only, have a
care that your bills be not stolen.--Well, you are to call at
all the ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.
2 Watch. How, if they will not?
Dog. Why, then, let them alone till they are sober; if they
make you not then the better answer, you may say, they are not
the men you took them for.
2 Watch. Well, sir.
Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue
of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the
less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your
honesty.
2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay
hands on him?
Dog. Truly, by your office, you may; but, I think, they
that touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable way for you,
if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is, and
steal out of your company.
Ver. You have been always called a merciful man, partner.
Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog, by my will; much
more a man who hath any honesty in him.
Ver. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to
the nurse, and bid her still it.
2 Watch. How, if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us.
Dog. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake
her with crying: for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when
it baes, will never answer a calf when it bleats.
Ver. 'T is very true.
Dog. This is the end of the charge. You, constable, are to
present the prince's own person: if you meet the prince in the
night, you may stay him.
Ver. Nay, by 'r lady, that, I think, he cannot.
Dog. Five shillings to one on 't, with any man that knows
the statues, he may stay him: marry, not without the prince be
willing: for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is
an offence to stay a man against his will.
Ver. By 'r lady, I think, it be so.
Dog. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be
any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows'
counsels and your own, and good-night.--Come, neighbor.
2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit
here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed.
Dog. One word more, honest neighbors: I pray you, watch
about Signior Leonato's door, for the wedding being there
tomorrow there is a great coil to-night.--Adieu; be vigilant,
I beseech you.
Shakespeare.
CCCLXXV.
INDIGESTION.
DR. GREGORY--PATIENT.
[SCENE.----DR. GREGORY'S STUDY. ENTER A PLUMP GLASGOW MERCHANT.]
Pa. Good morning, Dr. Gregory! I'm just come into
Edinburg about some law business, and I thought when
I was here, at any rate, I might just as weel take your advice,
sir, about my trouble.
Dr. Pray, sir, sit down. And now, my good sir, what may
your trouble be?
Pa. Indeed, Doctor, I'm not very sure; but I'm thinking
it's a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a
kind of pickling about my stomachs;--I'm just na right.
Dr. You are from the West country, I should suppose, sir?
Pa. Yes, sir, from Glasgow.
Dr. Ay; pray, sir, are you a glutton?
Pa. God forbid, sir; I'm one of the plainest men living in
all the West country.
Dr. Then, perhaps, you are a drunkard?
Pa. No, Dr. Gregory; thank God, no one can accuse me of
that. I'm of the Dissenting persuasion, Doctor, and an Elder;
so you may suppose I'm na drunkard.
Dr. I'll suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of
life. I'm so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I
would wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When
do you breakfast, and what do you take at it?
Pa. I breakfast at nine o'clock; take a cup of coffee, and
one or two cups of tea, a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or
kipper salmon, or, may be, both, if they're good, and two or
three rolls and butter.
Dr. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast?
Pa. Oh, yes, sir! but I don't count that as anything.
Dr. Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind
of a dinner do you make?
Pa. Oh, sir, I eat a very plain dinner indeed; some soup,
and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled; for I dinna care
for made dishes; I think, some way, they never satisfy the
appetite.
Dr. You take a little pudding, teens and afterwards some
cheese.
Pa. Oh, yes! though I don't care much about them.
Dr. You take a glass of ale and porter with your cheese?
Pa. Yes, one or the other; but seldom both.
Dr. You West-country people generally take a glass of Highland
whiskey after dinner.
Pa. Yes, we do; it as good for digestion.
Dr. Do you take any wine during dinner?
Pa. Yes, a glass or two of sherry; but I'm indifferent as to
wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer
Dr. What quantity of port do you drink?
Pa. Oh, very little; not above half a dozen glasses or so.
Dr. In the West country it is impossible, I hear to dine
without punch?
Pa. Yes, sir, indeed, 't is punch we drink chiefly; but for
myself unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take
more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that's moderate.
Dr. Oh, exceedingly moderate indeed! You then, after
this slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter?
Pa. Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the evening
letters.
Dr. And on your return you take supper, I suppose.
Pa. No, sir, I canna be said to take supper; just something
before going to bed;--a rizzard haddock, or a bit of toasted
cheese, or a half-hundred of oysters: or the like o' that and may
be, two thirds of a bottle of ale; but I take no regular supper.
Dr. But you take a little more punch after that?
Pa. No, sir, punch does not agree with me at bedtime. I
take a tumbler of warm whiskey-toddy at night; it is lighter to
sleep on.
Dr. So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your every
day life; but, upon great occasions, you perhaps exceed a little?
Pa. No, sir, except when a friend or two dine with me, or I
dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often
happen.
Dr. Not above twice a week?
Pa. No; not oftener.
Dr. Of course you sleep well and have a good appetite?
Pa. Yes, sir, thank God, I have; indeed, any ill-health that
I have is about meal-time.
Dr. [Assuming a severe look, knitting his brow, and lowering
his eyebrows.] Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow indeed.
You come here and tell me you are a moderate man; but upon
examination, I find by your own showing that you are a most
voracious glutton. You said you were a sober man; yet, by
your own showing, you are a beer-swiller, a dram-drinker, a
wine-bibber, and a guzzler of punch. You tell me you eat indigestible
suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep. I see that
you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what human stomach can stand
this? Go home, sir, and leave your present [course of ] riotous
living, and there are hopes that your stomach may recover its
tone, and you be in good health, like your neighbors.
Pa. I'm sure, Doctor, I 'm very much obliged to you [taking
out a bundle of bank-notes], I shall endeavor to.
Dr. Sir, you are not obliged to me:--put up your money,
sir. Do you think I 'll take a fee for telling you what you know
as well as myself? Though you 're no physician, sir, you are not
altogether a fool. Go home, sir, and reform, or, take my word
for it, your life is not worth half a year's purchase.
CCCLXXVI.
THE TWO ROBBERS.
[Alexander THE great, in his tent. A man with a fierce
countenance, chained and fettered, brought before him.]
Alex. What! art thou the Thracian robber, of whose
exploits I have heard so much?
Rob. I am a Thracian, and a soldier.
Alex. A soldier!--a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! the
pest of the country! I could honor thy courage; but I must
detest and punish thy crimes.
Rob. What have I done of which you can complain?
Alex. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority; violated
the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons and
the properties of thy fellow-subjects?
Rob. Alexander, I am your captive I must hear what you
please to say, and endure what you please to inflict. But my
soul is unconquered; and if I reply at all to your reproaches, I
will reply like a free man.
Alex. Speak freely. Far be it for me take the advantage of
my power, to silence those with whom I deign to converse.
Rob. I must; then, answer your question by another. How
have you passed your life?
Alex. Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will tell you.
Among the brave, I have been the bravest; among sovereigns,
the noblest; among conquerors, the mightiest.
Rob. And does not Fame speak of me, too? Was there
ever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was there ever--
but I scorn to boast. You yourself know that I have not been
easily subdued.
Alex. Still, what are you, but a robber--a base dishonest
robber?
Rob. And what is a conqueror? Have not you, too gone
about the earth like an evil genius: blasting the fair fruits of
peace and industry; plundering, ravaging, killing without law,
without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion?
All that I have done to a single district, with a hundred followers
you have done to whole nations, with a hundred thousand.
If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and princes.
If I have burned a few hamlets, you have desolated the
most flourishing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is then
the difference, but that as you were born a king, and I a private
man, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I?
Alex. But if I have taken like a king, I have given like a
king. If I have subverted empires, I have founded greater. I
have cherished arts, commerce, and philosophy.
Rob. I, too, have freely given to the poor what I took from
the rich. I have established order and discipline among the
most ferocious of mankind; and I have stretched out my protecting
arm over the oppressed. I know, indeed, little of the philosphy
you talk of; but I believe neither you nor I shall ever
atone to the world for the mischief we have done it.
Alex. Leave me.--Take off his chains, and use him well.
Are we, then, so much alike? Alexander to a robber?--Let
me reflect.
Dr. Aiken.
CCCLXXVII.
THE MISER.
LOVEGOLD--JAMES.
Love. Where have you been? I have wanted you
above an hour.
James. Whom do you want, sir,--your coachman or your
cook? for I am both one and t' other.
Love. I want my cook.
James. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman; for you
have had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horses
were starved; but your cook, sir, shall wait upon you in an
instant. [ Puts off his coachman's great-coat and appears as a
cook.] Now sir, I am ready for your commands.
Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper.
James. A supper, sir! I have not heard the word this half-year;
a dinner, indeed, now and then; but, for a supper, I'm
almost afraid, for want of practice, my hand is out.
Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you provide
a good supper.
James. That may be done with a good deal of money, sir.
Love. Is the mischief in you? Always money! Can you
say nothing else but money, money, money? My children, my
servants, my relations, can pronounce nothing but money.
James. Well, sir; but how many will there be at table?
love. About eight or ten; but I will have supper dressed
but for eight; for if there be enough for eight, there is enough
for ten.
James. Suppose, sir, at one end, a handsome soup; at the
other, a fine Westphalia ham and chickens; on one side, a fillet
of veal; on the other, a turkey, or rather a bustard, which may
be had for about a guinea--
Love. Zounds! is the fellow providing an entertainment for
my lord mayor and the court of aldermen?
James. Then a ragout--
Love. I'll have no ragout. Would you burst the good people
you dog?
James. Then pray, sir, what will you have?
Love. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stomachs:
let there be two good dishes of soup-maigre; a large suet pudding;
some dainty, fat pork-pie, very fat; a fine, small lean
breast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes. There;
that's plenty and variety.
James. O, dear--
Love. Plenty and variety.
James. But, sir, you must have some poultry.
Love. No; I'll have none.
James. Indeed, sir, you should.
Love. Well, then,--kill the old hen, for she has done laying.
James. Mercy! sir, how the folks will talk of it; indeed,
people say enough of you already.
Love. Eh! why, what do the people say, pray?
James. Oh, sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry.
Love. Not at all; for I'm always glad to hear what the
world says of me.
James. Why, sir, since you will have it, then, they make a
jest of you everywhere; nay, of your servants, on your account.
One says, you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order to
find an excuse to pay them no wages.
Love. Poh! poh!
James. Another says, you were taken one night stealing
your own oats from your own horses.
Love. That must be a lie; for I never allow them any.
James. In a word, you are the bye-word everywhere; and
you are never mentioned, but by the names of covetous, stingy,
scraping, old--
Love. Get along, you impudent villain!
James. Nay, sir, you said you would n't be angry.
Love. Get out, you dog! you--
Fielding.
CCCLXXVIII.
THE LETTER.
SQUIRE EGAN AND HIS NEW IRISH SERVANT, ANDY.
Squire. Well, Andy, you went to the postoffice, as I
ordered you?
Andy. Yis, sir.
Squire. Well, what did you find?
Andy. A most impertinent fellow indade, sir.
Squire. How so?
Andy Says I, as decent like as a gentleman, "I want a letther,
sir, if you plase." "Who do you want it for?" said the
posth-masther, as ye call him. "I want a letter, sir, if you
plase," said I "And whom do you want it for?" said he
again. "And what 's that to you?" said I.
Squire. You blockhead, what did he say to that?
Andy. He laughed at me, sir, and said he could not tell what
leather to give me, unless I told him the direction.
Squire. Well, you told him then, did you?
Andy. "The directions I got," said I "was to get a leather
here,--that 's the directions." "Who gave you the directions?"
says he. "The masther" said I. "And who 's your
masther?" said he. "What consarn is that of yours?" said I.
Squire. Did he break your head, then?
Andy. No sir. "Why you stupid rascal," said he, "if you
don't tell me his name, how can I give you his leather?" "You
could give it, if you liked," said I; "only you are fond of axing
impudent questions, because you think I'm simple." "Get out
o' this!" said he. "Your masther must be as great a goose as
yourself, to send such a missenger."
Squire. Well, how did you save my honor, Andy?
Andy. "Bad luck to your impudence!" said I. "Is it Squire
Egan you dare say goose to?" "O Squire Egan's your masther?"
said he. "Yes," says I; "Have you anything to say
agin it?"
Squire. You got the letter, then, did you?
Andy. "Here 's a leather for the squire," says he. "You
are to pay me eleven pence posthage." "What 'ud I pay 'levenpence
for?" said I "For posthage," said he. "Did n't I see
you give that gentlewoman a leather for four-pence, this blessed
minit?" said I; "and a bigger letther than this? Do you think
I 'm a fool?" says I? "Here 's a four-pence for you, and give
me the letther."
Squire. I wonder he did n't break your skull, and let some
light into it.
Andy. "Go along, you stupid thafe!" says he, because I
would n't let him chate your honor.
Square. Well, well; give me the letter.
Andy. I have n't it, sir. He would n't give it to me, sir.
Squire. Who would n't give it to you?
Andy. That old chate beyant in the town.
Square. Did n't you pay what he asked?
Andy. Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated, when he
was selling them before my face for four-pence a-piece?
Squire. Go back, you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you.
Andy. He'll murther me, if I say another word to him about
the leather; he swore he would.
Squire. I'll do it, if he don't, if you are not back in less than
an hour. [Exit]
Andy. O, that the like of me should be murthered for defending
the charrackter of my masther! It's not I'll go to dale
with that bloody chate again. I'll off to Dublin, and let the
leather rot on his dirty hands, bad luck to him!
Anonymous.
CCCLXXIX.
THE FRENCHMAN'S LESSON.